


Keep Dreaming, Maybe It'll Work Out

by booksindalibrary



Series: if you're at the bottom, the only way left is up [1]
Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Backstory, Brothers, Gen, Pre-Canon, idk how to tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 20:03:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11790444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksindalibrary/pseuds/booksindalibrary
Summary: Anything to get into the light.





	Keep Dreaming, Maybe It'll Work Out

“Aren't you sick of this?” Sheril was studying Tyki.

Tyki straightened. “Huh?”

“Little brother,” Sheril said softly, “I want better for you.” He patted Tyki on the head. “You're only ten, and yet, here we are.” He gestured at the field.

Tyki bent back over to do work. “Father will be angry if we don't finish this, y'know.”

Sheril was gazing off into the distance. “A job with no hard labour, that sounds great.”

Tyki scoffed. “Just focus on now.”

And over the next few months, their parents became ill and died with weeks of each other. Sheril stared at their father's body for a moment, before groaning and saying, “Tyki, we got to dig another grave.”

Tyki was also staring at the body. “Yeah. Think we have to make it as deep?”

Sheril scratched his head. “I don't want to deal with the shitty priest,” he admitted. “I mean, we sort of have to get the rites done, but I always get the feeling the priest doesn't actually know what he's doing.”

“He just doesn't like us,” Tyki said off-handedly.

Sheril stiffened. “What makes you think that?” Both boys were still gazing at their father's body.

“We're not related, after all,” Tyki pointed out. “He's just an arsehole, though.”

“How clever of you, little brother,” Sheril grinned. “Handsome _and_ smart; the ladies better watch out.”  
Tyki scowled and shuffled his feet, finally looking away from the corpse.

* * *

"It's so hot! I can't take it any more!" Tyki tugged at his shirt, glowering at Sheril. “Oi, I don't want to do this, y'know.” He was also pretty sure they would die in the process, but Sheril always flatly ignored death anyway.

Sheril blinked back at Tyki. “A little more,” he promised, somehow managing to look completely at ease in the heat; Tyki was sweating heavily, and was tempted to smack Sheril for looking so cool.

Tyki clicked his tongue, irritated. “I don't want to go to England, either,” he said, knowing he was being petulant.

Sheril took this in his stride. “It's for the better.”

“We don't even know English.” Tyki _hated_ the language.

“Speak for yourself.”

Tyki resisted the urge to stomp his feet in frustration. “Sheril-”

“We're doing this,” Sheril said forcefully, not looking at Tyki. “This is for the _better.”_ He stressed the last word, trying to convey _urgency._ “Tyki, we can't be live there forever, and England is better than this.”

Tyki glanced down at his rags involuntarily. “England will screw us over-”  
“They will do no such thing,” Sheril interjected.

“-and there's no way anybody would accept dirt-poor peasants like us, even if they won't screw us,” he continued, pretending he never heard Sheril.

Sheril looked ready to slap him. “Tyki. I mean it. Just- hang in there, okay?”

Tyki slumped over. “Okay, fine,” he relented. “I'll go along with it, just this once.”

Sheril nodded at Tyki. “About time.”

* * *

The boat ride, Sheril said, was a short one. The boat ride will be comfortable, Sheril promised. The people won't all watch Tyki be sick, Sheril reassured. And yet Tyki was lying on his side, feeling as though his stomach would escape and drop into the ocean, hearing people snicker at his 'weak' stomach.

“Here,” Sheril said, handing him a cup. Tyki took it gratefully, rinsing out his mouth and sighing.

“I think I have fleas,” Tyki observed, resigned.

Sheril shrugged. “I might as well. But this was the best we could afford.” Sheril gestured at themselves and the cramped, filthy quarters they were given. It was to be expected, and neither of them _resented_ it, but Tyki would have murdered everyone on board to get better living quarters.

Unfortunately, he didn't know how to sail, so that plan died in the womb.

“Nearly there,” Sheril said, peering out over the water.

“How old are you?” A fellow passenger suddenly interrupted, eyeing both of them. Tyki instantly didn't like the man, wanting him to _shut up_ and leave them alone.

Sheril turned to the man. “I'm young,” Sheril said, closing off. I don't trust him, Sheril was telling Tyki. At least they agreed on something.

Tyki, at the age of eighteen, wondered idly if he should pretend to be younger than he really was.

“Your names?” The man was pressing them, and Tyki was going to lash under the pressure.

Sheril's smile was flinty. “Who might you be?” He was erasing his accent already, Tyki thought, the sinking feeling of guilt weighing him down. He couldn't keep up with their rapid-fire conversation, and Tyki spaced out.

Sheril's tone was getting colder, Tyki reflected. If the man didn't watch himself, he would probably wind up dead. Some animal instinct must have kicked, for the man seemed to back off. Sheril ignored the other passengers, and Tyki enjoyed the way everyone else on board steered clear.

* * *

They had managed to rent an apartment, Sheril absurdly pleased to gain a relatively cheap place. When Tyki pointed out the flaws, Sheril dismissed the crime and the reputation. They were in England, Sheril insisted. Tyki thought he was crazy for thinking their life would improve.

“I want that,” Sheril said one time, not looking away from the blank wall. Puzzled, Tyki studied his brother. “Eh?”

Sheril spun around, grabbing Tyki by the shoulders. “England,” he said fiercely, conscious to keep his voice down. “I want to rule England.”

“You want power,” Tyki corrected.

“Yeah,” Sheril admitted, then tilted Tyki's head up. “You're looking very handsome,” Sheril said with a wink, and Tyki batted him away.

“Don't,” Tyki said, throwing on a jacket. “You keep dreaming, then, and I'll believe it when you put a feast on the table. Until then, I'm off to work.”

“Have fun,” Sheril called after him.

Tyki lifted a hand in acknowledgement, not really meaning it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> my first stint into dgm fic-writing on AO3 and I have regrets already
> 
> plz forgive the OOC?


End file.
